


Eleven

by one_step_closer_to_death



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, Happy, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, Hugs, I promise I'll work on and again, I'm so sorry, JUST, M/M, Mentioned America (Hetalia), Mentioned Germany (Hetalia), Mentioned Russia (Hetalia), Mild Language, POV England (Hetalia), Post-War, Reunions, War, World War I, and I can't miss it, but - Freeform, its armistice day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-08-19 18:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16539647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_step_closer_to_death/pseuds/one_step_closer_to_death
Summary: It was the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. November 11th 1918, the Great War ended.





	Eleven

It was five minutes to eleven o'clock in the morning and the battlefield was silent. It was never like this, but the soldiers were tired and they didn't want to fight any more. Though they never truly relaxed hence the uncomfortably tense atmosphere—it was an armistice, not a peace-treaty.

England didn't sit with the soldiers he had become acquainted to over the last four years (he had talked to all of them—after all, his position was a unique one). Instead, he stood still, stiff as a board, not even pacing out the tingling in his bones that told him so much more than just studying his people's faces. Like them, he was tired—though he was much more restless, a contradiction that never sat well with him. 

Four minutes.

This was America's third major war, he thought. The boy was unfortunate to suffer a civil war so early and even more to witness only barely two centuries into his existence a new era of wars that can shift the tide of the whole  _goddamn bloody world_. England can only hope that in all their existence, for the boy's sake, that the Great War will be the worst they'll all have to suffer. He would've been satisfied with that if he just didn't have this horrible feeling in his guts. After all, he didn't want him to suffer what England did at the Battle of the Sommes—that great disaster.

He saw America. The nation thrived on the battlefield.

It was only a matter of time before he built a weapon that could end the world with a push of a button.

England scoffed at the passing thought, waving it away.  _Fucking hell,_ he thought,  _this old man is getting paranoid with his old age._

Three minutes.

Russia lost the most. His economy suffered so much so that while in the middle of waging war, his people revolted. England supposed he should've seen it coming considering how strange Russia was acting. His influence over his country was almost as big as the country itself, so he couldn't have been forced into the war by his bosses, but England noticed the regret on his face, the sick pallor pushing past his mask along with the little hesitations that said his people was disagreeing. The empire—oh how he loved that word—knew this well as he had seen it time and time again as history repeats itself.

 _The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles._ What was the man's name? Karl Marx?

Two minutes.

Though he had not seen Russia as they were signing the Armistice, he had seen Germany. Though his losses were almost the same as Russia's, the young nation seemed even more worn down. His eyebrows were furrowed, as if lost in thought, or just thinking really hard. England knew what it was like to rethink strategies after they have already failed. Once again, deep regret and pain when thinking back to the Sommes.

Germany had said to the Allies, "A revolution is coming to me."

He was worried, their thoughts led to the conclusion.

One minute.

"Hey, Kirkland," a soldier, his name Arthur as well—Arthur Croft—said. "What have you got there?"

"Red poppy," England replied quietly.

"You know," Croft said, his fingers curling—England knew this was because he quit smoking before he was sent to the frontlines. "I'm now not really sure how to address you."

"Yeah, it's strange," Connor said, his Irish heritage evident in his accent. "You go off just as the Armistice is signed and now rumours are floatin' around that you were there to witness it!"

"That true, bruv?" Croft asked, before correcting himself. "Or sir Kirkland?"

"Please don't," England said curtly, glancing at his watch.

Ten seconds.

The conversation drifted through his ear, never registering.

Eight.

Five.

Four.

He was already climbing the trenches and reached the top when the minute hand struck twelve.

It was the eleventh hour. It was the eleventh day. It was the eleventh month.

The Great War was over.

His people were calling for him to come back, but he didn't care. The French troops were not here.

England ran and he lost count of how many times he did a nation 'jump'. Usually, he wouldn't be able to do it outside his own country, but Belgium was gleeful from the looks of it, and France... oh Francis. That idiotic, perverted frog— _his_ idiotic, perverted frog. Space became a thing of fantasy as the empire melted into the country's air, like a lover's long awaited embrace. He was sure the soldiers came out of the trenches, but he didn't care.

Golden hair blew in the wind thick with death, beautiful even under burnt clouds and tainted skies. Pale blue eyes that are, in his opinion, more stunning than Russia's soft violet ones widened, glee registering on the bearded nation's face.  _Fuck_ , even his beard managed to look good after four years.

" _Angleterre_!" England threw himself into the other nation's arms, all stiff pretences from when they met at the signing of the Armistice gone. France managed to keep his balance through the ridiculous amount of bandages keeping him upright. This must be a sight to behold—a Tommy and a frog embracing each other like reunited lovers.

It wasn't a far cry.

"Bloody idiot," England muttered into France's neck, taking in a deep breath of the republic's scent, amazed that even despite the blood, soot, and grime on the nation, there still managed to be the hint of iris that never faded even after the monarchy fell.

"This is it,  _mon petit ami_ ," France said, laughter in his breath, ignoring England's little mumble of 'don't call me that'. "It's the end of 'the war to end all wars'.

England held out the frog's face, staring into those beautiful eyes. "It's all over."

**Author's Note:**

> is it. is it though


End file.
